


Clockwork

by hegemony



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Endurance Sex, Fucking Machines, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce needs incredible, decadent slowness. He requires the kind of stamina that often comes with a trip to the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> Flashfic written for a prompt at Avengerkink: "So [Tony] tells his lover he wants to design a sex machine specifically for them so he can watch them gaining pleasure from something he's created with his own hands."
> 
> Written with a sense of minimalism on purpose, but seriously, how can you pass up going in on _that_?

Pleasure. 

That’s all Tony can see when he looks at Bruce’s face across the room: a face blank and pale with pleasure, eyes rolled back into his head.

Bruce is so disarmed that every breath is torture, laborious pulls of muscle that cause his toes to curl and his fingers to twitch. 

Tony’s straddling the chair on the other side of the room, more vanguard than audience. Tony’s impatient, the kind who has no real use for slow when it comes to much of anything – even sex. 

Bruce needs incredible, decadent slowness. He requires the kind of stamina that often comes with a trip to the hospital. 

Sexual opulence: nothing short of it will do. And even if Tony cannot ‘do’ sex in this case, he can _certainly_ do opulence.

So Bruce is on his knees on the bed, now. Shackled in, albeit reluctantly. 

(“Trust me, you’ll need it.” 

“Trust me, I’ll hate it.”)

He’s lost sight of Tony, of any impulse to perform. Of any carefulness, size, scale. 

The machine, the whisper-quiet and chrome coated sylph of a thing, chimes at the interval. 

Three hours, now. Hours full of Bruce’s squirming, rutting. His heaving, sweating, sobbing against the sheets. 

It’s been a delicate, careful process, keeping Bruce from falling over the edge into pain and frustration, into orgasm and desperation. The point isn’t for him to beg. 

The machine’s only been doing 15 thrusts a minute, and Tony has counted every one. It grinds to a stop. 

Like clockwork, Bruce pushes his hands down into the sheets and grabs, fucks himself back and forth until he stills, pushes his face into the pillow, screams as the third reservoir of nano-lubricant disperses through the head and sprays inside him, feels not quite like coming. 

A few thrusts at 45 turns per minute to rile him up, spread the lubricant, and it’s back to slow, meaningful strokes that stretch time with a dick that’s just a little big. 

Soon, Tony will walk over, lift Bruce’s face from the pillow, give him water to drink, wipe him clean of sweat. 

Bruce, gorgeous, mindless Bruce, won’t have the finest clue of what’s going on, will treat Tony like he’s ubiquitous. 

Tony wouldn’t usually stand for that. Here, being a figment of Bruce’s imagination is as good as any ‘I love you.’

They’re back to the place they started. 

Blank, careless, glassy pale pleasure.


End file.
